


Prelude to the Simultaneous Resignation of Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis

by OpensUp4Nobody



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Strangness, and rambling conversation, bc i cant help myself, brother francis, nanny ashtoreth - Freeform, or is it current canon? idk, probably dirt talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 16:12:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19704883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpensUp4Nobody/pseuds/OpensUp4Nobody
Summary: A story in which the earthbound forces of good and evil engage in pointless squabble over aesthetics and landscape ecology.





	Prelude to the Simultaneous Resignation of Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came to be because nim-lock on tumblr wanted nanny Crowley and gardener Aziraphale content. Not sure what you were after but this probably wasn’t it haha, hope you enjoy anyway :-)
> 
> This will probably be a few short chapters so that I can motivate myself to get through it (am v tired)
> 
> Endless thanks to shitpostingfromthebarricade for beta-ing

As far as gardening went, Aziraphale’s tactic was not the most involved—that is to say that Brother Francis did not give the appearance of being particularly hard-working when it came to gardening, not that anyone had ever expressed this opinion. The land he maintained was lovely enough without his interference, so he saw fit to let it do as it wished. Or at least, historically that had been his tactic; it was increasingly looking as though he would need to change that approach. 

To be fair, he had never been designed as a gardener, at least not as far as he knew. It would be rather strange to designate him as a gardener then stick him on guard-duty for the most significant garden in the history of the universe. But then, he hadn’t faired especially well in that endeavor, which he was presumably designed for, and by comparison he hadn’t committed historically significant or morally ambiguous choices in managing—or not managing— _ this _ garden. So perhaps the purpose of his existence was about as ineffable as everything else and therefore was not worth considering.

On the day which would ultimately lead to his retirement from gardening this particular property, Aziraphale found himself pondering these notions as he stared unhappily at a particularly impeccable patch of grass. It was not an especially pleasant day, but it wasn’t overly unpleasant either. The sun hovered directly overhead, heavy in the sky, not that anyone could see it behind the impenetrable shield of an overcast sky which only seemed to blanket in the summer heat. Aziraphale had been sitting on a bench in the backyard of the Dowling property, passively appreciating the world around him before he had taken a stand, endeavoring to take a stroll through the grounds.

That was when he had seen it—the impeccable grassy patch. In a single word, it was homogeneous. In multiple words, it was the sort of grass that rich landowners and golf course managers lust after. Green. Green. Green all the way through with not a touch of tarnish nor imposition by wayward weeds. The sort of grass that the denizens of high-class gated communities pray will be the icing on top of the cake that is their perfectly picturesque property. The sort of grass that has secrets tangled into its roots.

Aziraphale found it deeply and viscerally unsettling. 

At a surface level, the contrast to the rest of the lawn was slight if it was even noticeable at all. If one were paying attention, one might say something along the lines of: “Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely if all the lawn were like this?” as they nudged it with a shoeless foot upon noticing its contrasting softness, oblivious to the insidious implications of its very existence and the shape to which it was constrained. Said shape was the shadow of an impression of a high heeled shoe. A perfect grassy footprint. Aziraphale had been finding footprints of the exact same size and shape with increasing frequency all over the lawn in the previous months. This set led from the large house that stood at the front of the property, back to the edge of the garden where a demonic Nanny sat not watching the small child finger painting beside her. Instead of watching said child, she—or rather he—was staring directly at Aziraphale. At this distance, Aziraphale shouldn’t have been able to make out his expression, but fortunately he was an angel and therefore absolutely could, not that he needed to. He could feel the delighted smugness radiating off of Crowley’s skin. ‘You see that?’ he seemed to be saying, ‘Your garden likes me better than you.’. 

Which wasn’t true at all. Or at least, Aziraphale was quite certain it wasn’t true. It was just that he never tried to control the gardens, the plants simply weren’t used to listening to him, that’s why he had such a difficult time removing the dreadful footprints. If he actually put an effort in, he was sure the garden would jump at the chance to form to his will. The lawn was simply more used to Crowley’s imposition, that was all. Even before the organization of organisms within the lawn had begun to overtly change, it was very plain where Crowley had walked in the gardens. Back when they had just started watching over the youngest Dowling, the plants stood straighter in Crowley’s presence. Aziraphale had spent much time over the years coaxing them back into a relaxed position. The garden fundamentally feared the demon. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure as to whether or not Crowley was overtly threatening all of the organisms on the property, he had only once caught the demon whispering malevolently to the shrubs. He assumed that for the most part the threat was implied. 

As Aziraphale stared back at the demon, he wondered if perhaps it was time to take a hard stand on behalf of the flora. With this in mind, he made his way across the lawn, Crowley’s eyebrows drawing ever skyward at his approach, his lips quirked slightly upward. He was undistracted by little Warlock who was tugging at his sleeve, coloring it red with paint. The two of them were seated on a tarp-like blanket which was as splotched with paint from past endeavors as its occupants were from the current one; that is to say they were looking very messy indeed. 

“Brother Francis!” Warlock chirped at his approach.

“Hello, young Warlock. What are you up to?”

The boy held up his canvas for the angel to see. “I’m making pictures.” 

The image depicted a vaguely human form smiling as it stood casting squiggly lines at what might have been a bird below a smear of dark clouds raining red. 

“What’s happening there?” Aziraphale asked apprehensively. 

“That’s me,” he pointed to the smiling human. “I’m turning a bad guy into a bird so that the clouds can suck out his badness.” 

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. “Why have you made the rain red?”

“That’s all the badness coming out.”

“What happens to all the people who are rained on?” Crowley prompted. 

“They get sick,” Warlock answered absently, rifling through his supply of paint having already lost interest in the conversation. “Nanny, I need glitter for the clouds,” he whined. 

“Here you are, love,” Crowley said, pulling a jar of glitter from his sleeve. 

Warlock immediately grabbed the container, tearing off the lid and dumping it over his painting, spilling glitter all over himself in the process. “Done!” he proudly announced, shaking the loose glitter into the grass. 

“Lovely,” Crowley noted. “Why don’t you go show security your masterpiece?” He nodded to the security officers who stood hovering at the edge of the nearby pond. 

“Okay!” The boy hopped up and ran across the lawn to join the hovering officers. 

“Isn’t one of those agents afraid of glitter?” Aziraphale asked once the boy was out of hearing range, taking a seat next to the demon-nanny and undoubtedly coating his trousers in glitter.

“How am I to know what Agent Rollens is or isn’t afraid of?” Crowley grinned, the dried paint on his cheek cracking with the movement of his face. The imprint was blue and roughly the shape of a small human handprint. It was an oddly charming look on a hellish creature, and Aziraphale could not help but smile. 

“Leave those poor agents alone,” the gardener chided. 

“Now, you know I can’t do that,” he scoffed, tossing his head in a way that would half thrown his hair back had it not been carefully pinned back. “Look at them, they’re dreadfully boring and utterly pointless. Who’s going to break in here with the two of us here to watch? No one. We keep a proper close eye on things, so they have no point.” 

“Didn’t Warlock break into the kitchen last weekend while you were watching him? I heard he made himself sick eating chocolate.”

“No—well, yes, but-“ Crowley faltered. “That was your fault.“

“My fault?” Aziraphale protested. “How was it my fault? I wasn’t even there.” The angel had actually been across town discussing the logistics of getting a particularly interesting botched bible shipped to him. He’d assumed Crowley would be fine to watch the antichrist on his own. A few extra hours of evil exposure wouldn’t corrupt the boy beyond the point of no return, and it really was a very lovely bible. 

“Exactly,” the nanny huffed. “I was momentarily distracted trying to figure out where you’d gone to, and he decided to sneak in.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “It sounded like more than a momentary distraction. Rumor has it that you lost track of him and a member of security found him in a cupboard.”

“Yes, well. I knew where he was, obviously. I was just—well, if he wants to eat himself sick, who am I to stop him? Let him indulge! May the antichrist be a hedonist.”

“What I’m trying to say, dear boy, is that clearly it doesn’t hurt to have the extra help.”

“Aziraphale, I am insulted by your doubt in my ability to watch this child,” he huffed brandishing a paintbrush as if to punctuate his point. “Just you try to find a better nanny: you won’t. I am the very best.”

The gardener gave a small laugh, barely attempting to hide his amusement, “Oh, perhaps you’re right Dear; if you ignore the demonic aura, you actually look the part of a proper nanny.”

Crowley scowled, his eyes undoubtedly narrowing behind his dark glasses. “I am obeying the will of my dark prince,” he sniffed. “I have many talents, regardless of how well-suited to them I am. I was not made to be a nanny, I have adapted to the situation.”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale’s grin stretched wider. “Here you are, covered in tiny paint fingerprints, arguing over your ability to look after a child. I think you like kids. You appreciate their more devious inclinations. Perhaps in another life you might have been a primary school teacher.”

“How dare you?” Crowley balked, letting the paint dissolve away on his skin. “I am a malicious and extremely dangerous entity. I corrupt the very ground I walk on. No child would survive my instruction.”

Aziraphale frowned at the mention of the ground. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What? Dead children?”

“No! Good Lord. I meant your corrupting the ground.”

“Ah, so you’ve noticed then.”

“Hard not to.”

“Well, it’s just that we’ve been here six years, and one can only take so much of poorly-kept lawns.” He glared down at the grass beneath his feet. 

“Should I take offense to that?”

“Of course not,” Crowley shook his head. “You’ve done nothing but maintain it as is. This place is no reflection of your personal aesthetic. It’s an entirely human sort of ‘natural.’”

“Well, it’s certainly better than what you would do to it,” the angel scoffed. 

“Oh?”

“Yes, you would create a garden of terrors. As is, the bushes tremble when you walk by!”

“Well, perhaps they should do a better job of maintaining their shape.” He hissed at a nearby block of bushes. 

“None of that!” Aziraphale tugged at his sleeve. “Let them be, Crowley. What I’m trying to say, is that you make the lawn so homogenous.” 

“I make it look nice,” the demon corrected. 

“It’s unnerving,” Aziraphale shuddered. “I was thinking that perhaps I should start actively looking after this place.”

“Good luck convincing that lot to change their ways now.” He nodded to the garden. 

“All they need is a little heavenly encouragement,” he said with a shimmy of enthusiasm. “A bit of positive reinforcement. You’ll see.”

Crowley opened his mouth, disgust lining his now-paintless face, but was interrupted by a childish shout of delight. Across the yard, Warlock was being handed something by one of the security officers, his painting laying abandoned in the grass. Once whatever it was had been securely handed over, Warlock ran back toward the angel and demon. “Look! Look!” he shouted, holding out his cupped hands. 

“What have you got there, darling?” Crowley asked, voice slipping back to something softer. 

“A toad!” the boy chirped, opening his hands enough that Azriaphale could see the amphibian in the boy’s hands. 

“That’s no toad, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said, peaking over at the supposed toad. “That there be a frog.”

“That’s what I meant,” the boy sniffed petulantly, opening his hands a little wider, giving the frog a chance to make a leap for it. He fumbled a moment before getting his grip back on the creature.

“Not just any frog,” Crowley said. “An American bullfrog.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale fretted, “that’s not right.” 

“Why not?” 

“They’re quite invasive,” Crowley informed him.

Warlock stared at the animal in wonder. “What are they invading?” 

“They’re taking food and homes away from all the other creatures.”

“I should keep it then.”

“Sister frog needs to be outside with her siblings,” Aziraphale told him with a shake of his head. “When you’re done with her, go put her back in the pond. Then you can visit her whenever you like.”

“But what if she’s not there when I come to visit?” the boy asked, tightening his grip on the frog, which began again to squirm. 

“We can make her a little frog house,” Crowley soothed him. “We can make it out of clay. Why don’t you go look for a good place to put it? I’ll help you in a moment.”

At the idea of playing with clay, the boy’s expression turned thoughtful. “Fine,” he relented, wandering back toward the pond. 

“Well, that settles it,” Aziraphale huffed. “I am most definitely going to make some changes around here.”

“You draw the line at frogs? What are you going to do about those poor frogs?” 

“Turn them into better-suited frogs I supposed.”

“But what if they’re meant to be here?”

“What?”

“What if that’s part of the grand plan? What if you’re disobeying the ineffable plan by removing invasive frogs from that pond?”

“I don’t think the ineffable plan has included a section dedicated to the American bullfrog invasion of England.”

“How would you know?”

“I—well… I suppose I don’t, but I’ve decided that this is what I’m doing. If I second-guessed every choice I made, I’d get nothing done.”

“You could set a plague of frog-eating snakes upon the pond,” the demon suggested. “That would clear up the issue.”

“Or I could ask  _ you  _ to eat the frogs for me.”

“Eat them yourself. You like that sort of thing, don’t you?”

“Well, yes…perhaps…well, I’ll have to form a plan of attack. Either way, I’m not solving the problem by adding snakes to my garden. We do not have a very good history there.” 

“Says you, I think snakes do wonderfully in gardens,” he sniffed. “Anyway, I hope you don’t expect me to let you get away with this ‘shaping up the garden’ business.”

“Is the look of this place really that important to you?”

“It’s more a matter of pride,” Crowley asserted. “As a demon, I must endeavor to stop your heavenly advances in any way that I can. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a frog abode to design.”

“Right,” Aziraphale sighed, extending a hand to help the demon to his feet. “Best of luck, then.”

Crowley hummed in response, brushing a shower of glitter from his skirt and sauntering toward the pond where Warlock was wandering dangerously close to the water’s edge. 

The angel watched them a few moments to be sure that the antichrist was safely looked after before turning his attention back to the lawn. He had much work to do. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Mmmm not really happy with this but here we are :-P
> 
> I'm opens-up-4-nobody on tumblr if you want to say hi 
> 
> Thanks.


End file.
